


Fallacy (It's All a Game to Us)

by Ancrath



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual!Nico, Bisexual!Leo, Blood, Hurt Nico, M/M, Punk!Nico, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:07:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancrath/pseuds/Ancrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When mutants walk freely with humans and crime levels rise with the fall of judicial protection, Leo saves a dying criminal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ghost King is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest with you, I'm a huge Jasico shipper, but I like Leo's character enough to complete this.

Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon are powerful villains known as the Big Three and their combined powers give mutants a bad name. They run a nation-wide mob that the public has named the Demigods. The more powerful a mutant in their grasp becomes, the higher the position they rank. Humans infest many of the larger gangs that the mob controls, but society’s false beliefs turn everyone away from the truth:

Not all mutants are bad.

 

The Demigods have either corrupted the police force or terrified it, maybe even both. This would be why, when I sprint past two cops sipping milkshakes while three figures in all black chase my tail, the cops do no more than look in my direction, unconcerned. 

I’m not a mutant. I don’t have super fast legs or extra-inflatable lungs. I’m wheezing and gasping and my legs keep running me into dumpsters and fire hydrants. I don’t deserve this. All I did was take the radio out of their car. It was a nice radio. With a few tweaks, I could sell it for good money. But, no, I dropped the radio a mile back and they didn’t even bother to pick it up. What a waste. 

I know nobody will help me. The Demigods bully the city – particularly the Half Blood gang. I’ve basically just screwed myself over, so when I somehow lose my pursuers and make it safely, although exhausted, to my apartment, I know I should probably watch my back for the next two weeks. Thankfully, it’s ten at night. I gave them no chance to see my face and my clothes are dull enough to be unnoticeable anyway. 

Collapsing on my sofa and wiping my hand across my face in both exhaustion and defeat, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and scroll through my messages, which are nothing more than a few updates from Jason and Piper. One of Jason’s texts  _does_  get my attention, though. He’s telling me to turn on the news, and it was sent only four minutes ago.

Grabbing the remote and adjusting myself in my seat, I flip to the most reliable news station and tune in. The news cast must be on a short break, so I read the moving words on the bottom of the screen to try and fill myself in.

_“Two suspects caught for the disappearance and suspected murder of C.E.O. Annabeth Chase. Gang-related activity is being investigated. Police have not released the identities of the suspects yet.”_

I call Jason immediately. He’s been interning for the NYPD for two years now and I’ve been dwelling into my own personal game of detective work and reporting in my spare time away from the mechanic shop I work at. I’m lucky to have sold a few stories in my short time in the work to make some extra cash, and Jason and I have been attached to the most serious of Demigod crimes almost since he joined the NYPD.

_“Dude!”_

I know!” I answer just as enthusiastically. “Who do you think they caught?”

 _“I have no idea, man,”_ Jason’s voice is excited on the other line. _“Chase's architectural firm is, like, the most prominent in the nation, so I’m not surprised they’re taking this more seriously, even though they can’t really do anything about it. If it really is Demigod work, they’re as screwed as we are.”_

“But it’s made the headlines! And this must be recent, at most in the last hour. Do you think maybe it was Jackson? Literally every top story is on this right now. I’m flipping through channels and it’s all I’m hearing.”

 _“Wait, look! It’s back on. They’ve got an update!”_  I have no doubt he turned the news on the moment I called him back.

_“Suspects for Annabeth Chase’s case, Percy Jackson and Nico di Angelo, also known as the Ghost King, are now being released due to unknown circumstances. Sources confirm that Chase’s disappearance was indeed tied to the Demigod mob, but the possibility of her murder has yet to be resolved. She has been missing for three days as of tonight and police are warning civilians to be aware of the more prominent Demigod members.”_

“Shit, dude,” I say to a shocked Jason.

The reporter went on to describe who the public should be wary of. Even after police had detained Jackson and the Ghost King, no one had any visible evidence of them. The fact that they had just been released without any questioning was ridiculous, and I knew one of the Big Three had to be behind it. Zeus was probably out of the loop since the two Demigods weren’t from his main branch and Poseidon was more on the west coast, but both Jackson and the Ghost King had direct connections with Poseidon and Hades. In fact, they were hardly a few steps down in the ranking. Rumor even had it that Jackson was Poseidon’s only son. 

We call di Angelo the Ghost King for a reason. Aside from the Big Three, he has to be the most dangerous and certainly deadly of any Demigod. Hell, he can raise the bones of corpses and travel through shadows. Some say he can move the earth. 

Jackson was powerful, but the terrifying factor wasn’t huge in him, unless you have a fear of water. He and the Ghost King were always seen together. The police say they’re Zeus’ personal bodyguards due to their sheer power, but Jason and I had a grudge that they could be not only that but hitmen as well. No one could prove it because there was never any evidence. Bodies just disappeared. That was probably why they were the biggest suspects in the case of Annabeth Chase. 

I hang up on Jason after some more small gossip. It’s late, but I’m nowhere near tired yet, so I set myself to working on that video camera I was fixing for a beginning director. Another line of work I’ve caught myself in – fixing things for rich people.

Around two in the morning, it’s not the screech of tires outside my window that catches my attention, but rather the harsh thud and the sound of cracking glass that follows.

Setting my tools down slowly, I silently head to my open window and peer out, doing my best to remain unseen. There’s a stopped car in the street below and a person lying on the ground to the side. I watch, my eyes going wide, as a gun with a silencer makes an appearance through the passenger-side window and fires twice at the person, struggling to stand. The person’s body seizes with each shot before rigidly falling.

As the car, more like a small Hummer, I notice, pulls away, I realize with a jolt that I just watched someone get killed.

My breaths come in hard and deep as I push my back against the wall. Holy shit. Shit, shit, shit! There’s a dead person out on the street! Right below my apartment! I mean, yeah, I’ve seen dead bodies before, even though I could argue that it’s more Jason’s job, but witnessing a murder? No, not just a murder. Normal people don’t just kill like that in a world like this. What if the Half Bloods, or even the Demigods, knew I was there? Knew I had  _seen_? Forget the guys chasing me for the radio; I’d be tortured before my death when they find me for this! 

I look out the window again, but instead of peering straight down, I glance from side to side for any more open windows. None. I’m the only one who had heard, only one who had  _watched_. What if the guy was still alive?

Oh my god. What if the guy was  _still alive?_

I look down again, and, I swear, the person moved. He’s on his side, and I know I saw his arm move.

But what the hell do I do? Harbor a likely gang member? A likely  _Half Blood_  gang member? Am I crazy?

You bet I am.

I run, as quietly as I can, down three flights of stairs and hover inside the doorway to the building. The body is facing me, laying on his right side.

I open the door slowly, and a cold voice says, “Get away from here.”

“You’re not dead?!” I whisper harshly.

“You will be if you don’t lose yourself.” The person, I assume a man, tries to lift himself with his right arm, which looks awkward since he’s laying on his left side. There’s only one lamppost where we are, and the darkness blends him into the surroundings. He’s wearing, from what I can see, everything black. And he looks so, so dead. 

I take a few steps out of the building, but he manages a frail “No!”

“Please, let me help you!” I’m still keeping my voice down.

“No, you have to leave me alone,” the man almost cries, but he’s no louder than me. I say man, but as I get closer, he can’t be any older than me. A twenty-year-old in such a powerful gang? I really shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, but I ignore him as I hook my hands underneath his arms and pull him out of the street. He gives this whimpering groan, and the pained noise tugs at my heart.

He’s so thin. His jacket dwarfs him, and his black shirt with a rather awesome, simplistic skull design sticks to his torso with blood.

“You have to let me help you,” I plead. “You’ve been shot. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m dying,” the young man says with a sharp gasp, but his comment sounds more like he wanted to add “you uneducated annoyance” to the end of it. I kneel at his head and lift his skull from the cold ground with my left hand. It’s absolutely freezing outside, and he’s stopped struggling. My knuckles ache from the cold.

I busy my right hand with peeling the front of his jacket away and to the side. I place my hand on his rib cage and he almost stifles his cry.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I murmur as I gently pull him to me, my legs folded underneath.

His breathing isn’t coming easy at all, and I watch his jaw clench and release repetitively. 

“What’s your name?” he asks suddenly.

“Should I really be telling you that?”

“I’m on my deathbed. Tell me why you shouldn’t.”

He has a point. “Leo,” I reply.

“Leo,” he breathes. His voice is a rasp, now. His eyelids droop and his pupils hardly focus on anything.

“Did you hit your head? What hurts?” I keep him close to me and can feel his breath on my collarbone, my tank top offering little resistance against anything. His head is heavy against my shoulder and his nose to my neck. I don’t think he has the strength to even hold his head up.

“I cracked their windshield.”

“Oh, good, good,” I say in a sarcastic, congratulatory manner. 

I can’t tell if he’s got a sense of humor or if his emotions are so dark and dry that he doesn’t even have any left.

“We have to get out of here. I can’t just let you die. Can I take you to the hosp-”

“No hospital,” he manages to snap with a little bit of meaning.

“Okay, okay, no hospital.” I glance at the doorway to the building, then up at the open window to my room. “Okay.”

His weight is empty. I try, first, to help him walk. I know he’s doing his best to not fall down. At least he’s finally working with me. He’s getting his legs to move and his right arm is hanging on pretty tight to me, although the other may as well have been nonexistent. I’ve got one arm around his waist and the other holding his hand across my shoulders. He’s not quite limping, which means his legs are okay, but more often than not he starts wavering or doubles partway over. It’s one of these times that I feel his arm slide off of me, and proceed to clutch around his abdomen as he sinks to his knees, scrunching his face and grimacing in agony. 

I know he can’t breathe. His ribs must have been crushed on the impact with the deathmobile and I have to get him up to my room. Looking at his face, I see he has a nasty gash accompanied by horrific bruising on his left cheekbone. His black hair is mussed and frayed where it's fallen from his ponytail, the ends at the front clinging to his face in cold sweat. I look down at the tentative grip he has underneath his ribs.

“I can’t get up,” his voice breaks. “I can’t-”

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” I soothe as I slowly scoop him up, arms underneath his shoulders and knees. His head leans against my shoulder for a moment before hanging off my arm.

“Hey, stay awake,” I say as I open the glass doors with my foot. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“’m trying,” he gasps, and I believe him.

I turn to different tactics. I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up again if he closes his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Come on, I told you mine. Tell me why you can’t tell me.”

I think the small shivers I felt were a laugh escaping him. I at least saw what could pass as a smile as I climbed the stairs. The elevator had security cameras, whereas the stairs were always entirely unoccupied because people are lazier than they'd ever admit. 

Something tickles me and I realize the sensation is this guy’s blood seeping through my clothing and running down my skin. I hate it.

“Hey,” I jostle him lightly, expecting  _something_. I get no reaction. “No, no, please!” We’re almost at my room. We’re almost there. I had left my door open and everything. Please don’t die, please don’t die, I can’t mentally handle that  _please don't die!_

I shut the door with a shove from my shoulder and take him straight to the bathroom. There’s blood all over me and his shirt is completely soaked. I prop him against the tub, seated on the tile floor, which is cool on my skin but not biting like the outside air.

Taking his face in my hands and brushing some of his longer hair away, I realize he isn’t totally unconscious yet as his eyelids flutter lightly. His irises keep trying to roll into his head but I can tell he’s restraining himself the best he can. Nobody wants to die.

I slap his cheek very gently because I don’t want to rattle his obvious concussion. I get the effect I want. He makes a noise and I reply with a more soothing sound.

His lips move, but I have to ask what he said.

“Water,” he barely rasps. I reach up to the sink, grab the cup I keep handy, fill it, and bring it to his lips. I have to hold the cup for him, but he’s smarter than to down the whole thing at once. Blood loss really makes you thirsty and I'm dreadfully waiting for it to take away his sanity.

He can’t hold himself up, though. I shuffle his jacket off as painlessly as I can manage and open a nearby cabinet to take out a medical kit.

I use the scissors to cut off his t-shirt, because there’s no way I can pull it off him in one piece without probably killing him. I have to move fast because his life is spilling all over my bathroom floor. There's so much blood that I can hardly even make out the tattoos covering the entirety of his right arm and the half sleeve on his dead shoulder.

There were two shots. I know because I saw them trigger. There’s just too much blood and I can't find where the bullets hit until they’re very suddenly visible.

His left side. His left arm, that he can't lift a finger of because a bullet is lodged in his humerus. His left chest, in the meat of his muscle underneath his pectoral, where the second bullet opened the wound for his blood to escape. They had aimed for his heart. He was supposed to be dead.

In my bathroom, leaning against the side of my tub, passed out and bleeding to death, lay the Ghost King. 


	2. Beds Aren't for Sharing

I know how to cauterize and stitch a wound purely from my own curiosity. Digging bullets out, however, has never been on my to-do list.

Basically, if his injuries or the blood loss don’t kill him first, my surgical skills will be the cause of Nico’s death.

The bullet in his chest, however messy the impact was, actually proves easier to remove. Sure, I have to open the wound a bit more, but it had shot clean and, when your fingers are accustomed to tiny and precise movements, the stitching goes smoothly.

Just as I start contemplating how to address his arm, the Ghost King begins to stir.

The minimal flutter of his eyelids catches my eye, and then the crease in his brows. His head moves slightly, his eyebrows shoving closer together, and, after a moment of pause, he begins to lift his head up and lets out a small noise of pain.

Shifting my attention from his arm to his face, I resume babying the mercenary like I did when I found him. The tattoo sleeve on his right arm crawls up the side of his neck.

“Nico?” Now that I'm sure of his identity, there's no use hiding my knowledge. My hands instantly rush to the sides of his face, both his skin and mine covered in blood. The right side of his head is shaved and I can feel the bristles of hair on my fingertips. I don’t expect him to react as rash as he does.

He pulls away from my touch the moment his eyes register his surroundings. I don’t blame his confusion. Yet, just as quickly as he shoved away, his face masks over and I see him swallow his fear. He’s breathing hard but slow through his nose, trying to reduce the pain in his chest.

“Remember me?” I search for recognition, my hands splayed mercifully in front of me. “I’m Leo. You’re in my-”

“I know who you are,” Nico interrupts in a quiet, tight tone. “How do you know who I am?”

I really do think of telling him how I know much more than I should, but there are much more important things at the moment, like, you know, death.

“I promise, I’ll tell you later,” I choose to say. “But right now you still have a bullet in your arm, and I need to get it out.…” My voice trails at the end, and he picks up on my struggle.

“You don’t know how,” he breathes. He’s so pale and whatever adrenaline he had upon waking has left him.

“I know  _how_ ," I counter. “I just…. It’s hooked in your bone, and I’m afraid I’m going to screw something up. Your chest got lucky. This… not so much.”

He blinks slowly, a long moment of closed eyes. “There’ll be bone shards. Open the wound, shine a flashlight in, and get them out. Then take out the bullet. Don’t close it until all the shards are gone.” He speaks curtly.

I don’t question how he knows this, partly because he doesn’t question how I closed his first wound.

“This is gonna be harder than when you were out,” I mention, grabbing a tiny flashlight from my kit, turning it on, and sticking the butt in my mouth, since I need both hands to open around the hole in his arm.

“My ribs hurt the most,” Nico murmurs. “I doubt it’ll override them. Everything else is numb, anyway.”

“Well, that’s not good,” I reply, kind of, because my mouth is full of flashlight. Better to keep him talking and distracted while I work. “Maybe it has something to do with hitting your head?”

“No.” He leans his head back over the side of the tub and closes his eyes. Only his lips move, and he doesn’t flinch as my tools dig into his arm. “It’s shock. But my head is throbbing. I can’t even pinpoint where I’m hit. Feels like something reverberating around my brain and banging on the walls of my head.”

“That’s pretty descriptive,” I note in an almost cheerful voice. Despite the situation, I actually  _do_  like talking to him.

“I think I got all the bone fragments out,” I explain after taking the flashlight out of my mouth. I’ve been putting the pieces in a plastic bag. “The bullet is really stuck in your bone, though.”

I move, about to grasp the bullet with my utensil, but Nico stops me.

“Wait,” he breathes. “Do you have something I can bite onto?”

Good thinking. “A towel?”

“I won’t be able to breathe through that.”

“Um…” I think for a moment, rubbing my hands on my thighs, smearing blood onto my jeans. My tank top is coated in red. Either the tile floor isn’t that cold anymore or my socks are doing a good job warming my feet.

“Belt,” Nico gasps, his body flinching against his shattered ribs. “I have a belt.” His hand moves and his fingers weakly fumble with the strap, but I gently move his hand away and do it myself. His limbs are shaking.

It’s definitely not the situation I would think to be taking someone’s belt off.

He actually has a pretty nice leather belt, and I can’t help but notice it. I hold the middle near his mouth and his teeth close lightly over it.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I let out a breath and pick up the tweezers again.

It’s not a big bullet. I know nothing about guns or ammunition so I can’t tell you anything.

 “Should I count to-”

“Just do it.” His words grit around the leather in his mouth.

I latch around the bullet and begin to pull.

His jaw clenches immediately, teeth grinding into his belt. The bullet won’t budge, so I pull harder, feeling it give a little. A high-pitched whine comes from Nico.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say right before I yank the bullet from his arm.

Nico cuts off his scream just as the sound escapes his lips and the belt drops to the floor. Blood gushes from his arm and tears from his eyes. I move quickly, Nico’s body racking from silent sobs. His face is turned away from me and I don’t want to see him cry.

There are only two small shards that were packed under the bullet, so I remove those as quickly and painlessly as I can.

“It’s over, it’s over,” I hush as I begin stitching him together. I can see the strain in his neck and the wetness from tears flying down his cheeks.

When I’m done, I wash my hands for probably the bajillionth time and move myself directly in front of him. “Hey, Nico?”

He looks dazed but at least tries to raise his eyes to me. He’s so tired. I brush a bit of his hair away with my hand and use a tissue to wipe tears and some blood away from his face. His skin is ghastly white; what looks like originally a pale olive colour has taken a dead tone, the life sucked out of him. His eyes are now glued to the ground and I notice his face, really, for the first time.

Hell, he’s insanely attractive. High cheekbones, dark,  _dark_  eyes. His hair is blacker than the night, challenging his clothing. His jawline could cut a diamond. I hadn’t paid attention before, but, for a thin guy, he’s got perfectly toned muscles underneath all the tattoos and blood. Damn.

I startle myself out of my admiration, realizing that I’m gently stroking the side of his face with my thumb and cupping the back of his head with the rest of my hand.

Licking my lips and feeling a little awkward, I ask, “Can I clean you off?” He’s already cut me off twice, so I keep my sentences short, hoping not to agitate him with all the words I'm never prepared to say but babble out anyway.

At first, I don’t think he’s heard me, but a small nod gives me consent.

I take his boots and socks off so that he’s only in his black jeans. “I’m going to check for bruises and broken bones, okay? If you’re uncomfortable, just, uh, like, move your hand or something.” He breathes out.

Starting around his ankles, I slowly apply pressure with my hands as I move up his legs, over his jeans. He flinches around his shins and knees and slightly groans on the side of his right thigh.

I don’t spend a lot of time on his hips, but I can tell he hurts there. There’s weird greenish bruising above his pant-line on his sides that trails to where I can’t see, but I keep moving up. And  _goddamn_ , he has symmetrical tattoos on his lower stomach that dip underneath the rim of his jeans.

His ribs I completely avoid. Even underneath the dried red I can see the blotching of blue and purple all over him. I choose not to worry about his arms, because the one has already been shot and the other doesn’t look like anything bad. However, I notice weird, long scarring from something I can’t imagine.

Nico’s whole body is tense and I take a moment to rub circles into the top of his spine to relieve some of the pressure and maybe soothe his headache a bit, although I doubt it works. He nearly melts into my hands, though.

“I’m going to move you, okay?” I tell him. Some small noise replies to me from deep in his throat.

As carefully as I can, I lift him up bridal-style again and step into the empty tub. Laying him down, head next to the faucet, I grab a soft cloth and turn the water on, running low and warm. I make sure the tub isn’t plugged so the water just runs straight down, but his pants still get a little wet and my clothes are a bit splashed. Wet socks are uncomfortable, though, so I rip mine off.

Washcloth soaked, I start with his arms, first around the bullet wound. I had already cleaned the spot to stitch it, so I move around my work, red water trailing off Nico’s skin. The long scars catch my eye again. They’re unnerving.

Once I’m done with those two limbs, I dab at his face. He looks solemn, lying here. He hasn’t made a sound yet as I pull the cloth over his face.

His hair is matted with drying blood and I’ve forgotten to see to the cause of his concussion. With wet hands, I pull out his ponytail and move my fingers around the crown of his head. There’s two alarming lumps – one, at the front of his right temple, where he must have hit the car’s windshield judging by the tiny shards of glass embedded superficially, and the other at the back, where I assume he hit the ground. The front is still sluggishly bleeding.

I have to be really gentle with the cloth now. I can feel his fever hot against my skin when my fingers brush him. He looks terrible and minus a ton of blood.

His hair is impossible. I grab shampoo and rub circles into the mats of black. His body begins to relax even more.

I use the shower head to rinse out the reddened suds of shampoo and then decide I may as well include a little conditioner as well. Maybe he’d appreciate it and will rethink possibly killing me later if he lives through this.

When I’m done with his hair, I put a bit of soap onto the washcloth and clean off his face again. The scrubs on his head wash down and I busy myself clearing the rest off, including the last of the blood on the uppermost part of his body.

He starts leaning into my hand after a minute, so I take advantage of his movement and move the rag to his neck. I lean forward, closer to him, and settle his head in the crook of my free arm. His entire body has gone slack but I know he’s still awake by the occasional flinches and the faltering breaths.

There’s road rash on the backs of his shoulders and lower arms, and not a good case of it. I wonder how it got past his leather jacket, and then I remember that I didn’t even really look at the jacket in the first place. It’s probably destroyed.

He’s scraped all over his hands (which, might I note, both have tattoos on them because this guy just can't get enough of the damn things that look so  _damn good on him_ ), but even though they must sting when touched, he’s stopped flinching.

I take care of his middle last and am reluctant to even touch that area. He’s nearly fallen asleep and his breathing has calmed, easing him. I know I’ll wake him completely if I so much as touch one of his battered bones.

I try cleaning his stomach and he sucks in a breath, which rattles him, so, instead, I swipe the cloth over his hips.

The sudden grip he has on my wrist nearly makes me squeak.

“I-I’m sorry, I….” but I don’t know what to say to that.

For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t know what just happened, but then he lets go of my wrist and I think he mutters an apology. His voice is hardly a whisper now.

Eventually, I pull him towards me and lean his body against mine, holding him up. He stirs a bit at the movement, but settles easily. Sometimes, all you need is a comforting body to feel safe.

I squeeze water from the wash rag down his back before I dab at it, picking out tiny pieces of gravel. I can hear an occasional intake of breath when it burns him. But, after a few minutes of focusing on his back, my hand wraps around just too far as I try to reach a scrape on his side and I brush the end of a cracked rib.

He stiffens immediately.

“Sorry, there’s a scrape on your side,” I try to comfort him. I pause as soon as he moves and cradle his head, trying to soothe him. I’m hit with a notion that he’s probably become delirious from fever and pain.

I gently press against the scrape and he groans quietly in pain. His body is the opposite of relaxed, now; he’s completely aware of only the pain the washrag brings, and I haven’t even touched the shattered areas of his bones. Soon enough, he’s flinching, pulling away from me again. I wonder if he’s ever been beaten, and the dark thought surprises me.

This time, he pulls too far and jars himself. He cries out weakly and none of my hushing or whispering is making it any better.

“Can’t breathe,” I hear the choked words escape him.

“It’s okay,” is all I can think of saying. It's certainly not okay.

I can tell he’s trying his hardest to take easy breaths, but each time his body racks with a gasp he just makes it worse. Before I know it, he’s coughing and all I can do is sit there and stroke his damp hair as his body slumps against me.

When the agony subsides to a dull roar, Nico buries his face in my shoulder and the spasms of his body turn into light shuddering. I see his tears hit my jeans over my knee.

I think of hugging him. But I only think of it.

 

 

Now that he’s no longer bleeding, I decide Nico can stay on my couch. I’m not really ready to give up my bed. Getting him to the couch, though, is an adventure in itself.

“Would you just let me walk, damn it?” Nico snaps when I hook my arms underneath his shoulders, pulling him up from the bathroom floor.

“Fine,” I say, releasing him the moment he’s on his feet. He’s taller than I thought, but I think I might have an inch or two on him. “Do it yourself. Don’t call me if you need me.” That’s a total lie. I wouldn’t let him get so much as a paper cut. However, it  _is_  four-thirty in the morning, and I haven’t slept at all, so my sass is getting sharper by the moment. 

I move in front of him and he glares at me, those dark eyes burning holes into me. His right hand props him against the wall, his left dead at his side. I picture him mentally gathering himself, and when he takes a small step forward, he makes it. 

But when he takes two more, his legs become too weak to hold him, and he crumbles with a cry as I catch him, expecting the fall. 

Nico doesn't say anything as I sling his good arm over my shoulder and hold his waist where I hope I don't hurt him. We shuffle, slowly, into the main room, and I lower him onto the sofa, him grimacing the whole way. I leave him there for a moment, wrapping his arm around himself, so I can grab water for each of us. When I give it to him, I have to hold his hands over the glass because they shake too much. 

When he's done drinking, he props both his feet solid on the ground and leans forward, stabling himself with his elbows on his knees. He leans entirely to the right, though, so as not to apply any pressure onto his bad side. His head hangs down, exposing the bare knobs of his spine. 

I come back from a short trip to my bedroom with a clean shirt in my hand and Nico just as I left him. The shirt is a plain grey, so I hope the Ghost King won't strangle me for giving him a piece of clothing too bright for his taste. 

He reaches for the item, but I pull it away with a  _tsk_. 

"One last thing, then you can cover yourself and go to sleep," I say.

He grumbles something, but I don't catch it, and I know better than to pester him. 

I had stitched his head back together when I pulled him out of the tub, and now I place a gauze onto the front wound and wrap a bandage around his head. The epic mass of his hair argues with me, but I manage a fairly nice job.

I repeat the process on his upper left arm and around his chest, packing his ribs gently and making sure the layer of bandages is thick enough to add comfort when he goes to lay down. His skin is cold and he's sweating a little - the fever won't leave him anytime soon. I bandage his wrists and hands for good measure and remember the probably nasty bruise on his thigh which I hadn't seen but knew was bothering him greatly.

The flicker of my eyes to the area was all he needed. "Do you have a pair of sweatpants I could change into? I need help on that leg and I know pulling jeans back on will be... difficult."

"Only if you let me help you," I answer. "If you can't walk by yourself, I won't let you hurt yourself more by trying to change pants." My comment sounded less comical out loud than it did in my head.

"Fine," Nico complies. 

I come back with my only other pair of sweatpants, which happen to be black, and find myself in another odd situation that I wish was under different circumstances. Inching his jeans off isn't hard, but he also can't help me apart from trying to keep his body as still as possible. Once I get past his knees, though, they slide right off. 

Thank anything holy for boxers. I should have expected them to be black, in all honesty. 

His thigh looks almost like the outside of his ribs, masked in blue, but there's more of the odd greenish bruises, like fingerprints painted onto his skin. 

"It's not broken," Nico says, "but it hurts like a bitch. Must have hit the guard on the car." He's looking at his leg in disappointment, maybe disgust.

"Well, hey, then that's at least a little good, right?" I have my hands on my hips. "Just a bruise." Nico doesn't say anything, but starts rubbing his hands across his face. Unfortunately, I'm not the cause of his ache.

He looks sickly, and when he covers his mouth with his hand, I rush to find any sort of bucket. Do I even own a bucket? There's one holding a bunch of nails and screws, so I dump them onto my floor and sprint back with what I need plus some paper towels, arriving just as Nico spills the contents of his stomach, the exertion of everything since getting out of the tub getting the better of his concussion. 

He stays like that for a moment, hunched off the side of my sofa, and then finally takes the paper towels from me and wipes one across his mouth and another over the sweat on his face. 

"I feel like shit." I didn't expect him to say anything, being a quiet guy, but the words rumble from him. 

"You look like it," I counter, but however hard he tries to glare at me, his expression is more exhausted and pained than anything. I can't imagine how his ribs must be feeling right now. 

I wrap his thigh and pull the sweatpants on, finally done. I'm spent, but I can't voice my complaints because Nico has it  _so_  much worse than I do. How he survived, I'm still trying to figure out. Maybe it has something to do with his death powers, as if he can suck any life from the recently-dead trapped in the underworld to give himself to survive. 

I sink into the only comfy chair I own besides the one Nico occupies and let out a huge sigh. It's quiet and I think of falling asleep, even though the lights are still on in the bathroom and kitchen, brightening the main room. I hear Nico's breaths in the silence; they're shaky. 

"You need a doctor," I say absentmindedly, but Nico opens his eyes and looks at me. 

It's not a glare or a judgement. He looks right into me, but it doesn't make my skin crawl. I know how much he hurts. I don't know the pain, but I know how he can't breathe, how his body is on fire, how his arm is immovable, probably for a while, and I look down because I can't bear that pain. 

"Thank you," he whispers, and I look up to meet his eyes, but they've closed. 

I sit there for a few minutes, my head resting on my fist, my elbow propped on the arm chair, looking at him. 

The last thing I do before changing into clean clothes and passing out in the chair I rested in and after placing an ice pack, wrapped in a thin towel, on the side of his head is lay a blanket over his sleeping form, protecting him from the nightmares I knew the fever would induce.


	3. Blood Doesn't Make Very Good Paint

Dying is a premium inconvenience and it certainly wasn't on my agenda.

And, apparently, my own death wasn't on Leo's to-do list, either.

Woken by a mild nightmare, I lay on the kid's couch and watch his sleeping form. I can finally feel some sort of clarity in my head and my eyes actually focus on what I want them to. Leo's legs are tucked underneath him, his elbow perched on the chair arm and his hand holding his head up. There are bags under his closed eyes and his mouth is slightly parted. He's not wearing the blood-soaked clothes he, well, I guess, rescued me in. As my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, I can see the veins in his arms and the weariness of his hands.

Everything is peaceful and I can almost breathe.

 

 

 I don't remember falling asleep again, but I wake with less of a jolt this time. I manage to sit up and find a hairband around my wrist. Did he really think as far to give such a small thing back to me?

Everything is kind of dim to me and I wait for my senses to fix themselves as I pull my hair back in a ponytail - the best I can with whatever bandages are wrapped around my head and hands. My left arm hurts beyond explanation but it’s nice to be able to move it now. I rub my hands across my face and look around. Leo isn't in his chair and the sound of a voice that isn't his immediately puts me on edge. The tension makes my body scream.

The entire apartment is lit by sunlight, so I assume it's past morning. My clothes are clean and folded on the table next to me, but my leather jacket looks destroyed. I silently, yet painfully, move off the couch and pull my handgun out of one of my jacket's inner pockets. At least the dumbass didn't go through pockets he didn't need to and take away my things. 

I know how to sneak up on people but every muscle in my body protests against motion. Regardless, I make it to the kitchen and raise the barrel of my gun to the tall blonde man urgently whispering back and forth with Leo. It's Leo who sees me first.

"Whoa, whoa, okay," he says more timidly than he probably intended, and the blonde throws his hands in the air and takes a step back. 

It only takes a heartbeat for me to asses the stranger. I recognize the unmarked gadgets on his belt and the way he handles his movement. "Who's your cop friend, Leo?" I ask monotonously.

"Uh...." is the only response I get.

"Hi," the blonde greets shakily. 

"His name is Jason," Leo finally manages to spit out. "He's not here to hurt you, I promise. He's on our side. Can you please-"

"' _Our'_  side?" I say without taking my eyes or aim off of Jason.

"Well, uh, you and me, I guess."

"There's me, there's you, and there's Captain America here. Please, enlighten me."

The gears in Leo's head start functioning but he doesn't make a sound. I don't really care. Jason has already looked me up and down, assuming I haven't seen, and I wonder if he can see my body start to waver. He's completely on guard and I contemplate if he has a gun tucked in his pants behind his back. He hasn't moved his hands or fingers, though, not even a twitch, so even if he did have one, he hasn't thought about pulling it out. He isn't looking at my gun; he's looking at me.

I put the safety on and lower my weapon. I at least owe Leo his life and this Jason guy is just a rookie. They're not a threat and my legs aren't holding me up anymore.

"Nice to meet you, Jason," I say. My gun drops from my hand the moment I put the safety on and my knees buckle. Leo, who had tried to move somewhat between me and Jason, swiftly pulls me up before I can hit the tile floor.

"I told you he needs a doctor," I hear Leo mutter to Jason, who is warily lowering his arms. My eyelids won't open all the way and it’s hard to keep my focus on the blonde man, but I notice the shift of his feet and the cautious movements he makes towards me. When he kneels and reaches for my gun, I basically snarl.

"Touch that and I'll chop off your hands with the kitchen knife by the toaster," I grit, just loud enough for my audience to hear. Both boys look at the toaster and, upon seeing my newly-proclaimed weapon, look at each other in what I can only describe as nervous recognition with Leo bearing most of my weight and Jason's hand hovering, frozen, over my handgun.

"Um, okay," Leo swallows, "how 'bout we move to the couch, yeah? No sharp knives or loaded guns over there."

I let the Latino lead me as I don't have much of a choice. If I pull away from him, I won't even make it to the door. The fire engulfing me just keeps growing, and as we struggle to the simple destination the roaring in my ears becomes so bad that when he lowers me onto the sofa I just kind of crumble. I hardly feel the fabric of the cushions underneath me because my skin is shredding itself apart and my muscles are screaming in agony. I think I'm laying on my side, maybe my back. I don't know. Everything is spinning. Leo and Jason are talking and I can hear their noise but nothing more. They're distant behind the waves crashing against my skull. My eyes must be shut because I don't really see anything anymore. I can feel tension but it feels more like an envelope than a sensation. The dead won't leave me alone. Maybe it's their fists pounding in my head, rattling my brain and blocking my vision. The roaring turns into their screaming, or maybe it's been that all along and I'm just not paying attention to them. I wonder if that's why they're so angry, if I don't give them enough attention and they're taking it out on me by ripping my insides apart. I can't see them but they start pulling on my legs and crawling under my nerves like knives under a blanket and it  _hurts_. I can feel their sledgehammers beating my ribs as if I'm a cave full of crystals needing to be mined. A cluster of them are jumping on my heart and suddenly one of them bursts through my chest-

"Nico!" Leo's face is right in front of me, his eyes so close to mine. His hands are on the sides of my face like he kept doing last night and the familiar touch washes the demons out of me. I hear panting and I notice he's breathing as if he's scared. But the labored breaths aren't his; they're mine, and I finally realize that my whole body is shivering violently and for some reason my chest feels like someone threw a bucket of ice at me. My hands are so cold that they're almost numb. My body is so taut that it's curling into itself.

Captain America is kneeling at my legs, gripping my knee. I shout at my legs to kick him off but they don't hear me.

"Shit." Leo's voice brings my attention back to him and then the warmth of his hands is gone until I feel his fingertips tugging at my shirt. Well,  _his_  shirt, I guess. "He's bleeding again. Bad."

"Let's get him on the floor," Jason decides as he shoves the coffee table to the side. "Lift on three."

With Blondie supporting my legs and Leo scooping his arms underneath mine, they pull me off the sofa and onto the wood floor. I can now smell my blood. 

"Call 911," Jason instructs, but I intervene before Leo even has the chance to move.

"No."

Jason just looks at Leo as if he's waiting for his friend to ignore the dangerous criminal like it would be common sense. I don't feel Leo even twitch behind me and then Jason lowers his gaze to me. 

"If you take me to a hospital, all three of us will die," I bluntly explain. 

"Call Will!" Leo cries out what he acts like is a bright idea.

"Who the fuck is Will?" I ask after a breath.

There's a moment of silence before Jason answers, "Autopsy surgeon."

"Fitting," I remark as I try to boost myself onto my elbow. 

"Hey,  _amigo_ , don't move," Leo says behind me and I feel him grasp my shoulders gently. I let him lay my head on his thighs, his body perched over mine and his fingers absentmindedly combing the loose strands of my hair. 

The rookie takes the rim of my shirt and delicately shimmies it up to bunch underneath my armpits. Leo's wrap job is starting to unravel and blood covers my stomach like paint, pouring down from behind the gauze. When I see the rise and fall of my diaphragm I'm reminded how ragged my breathing is. If I focus on it too much I won't be able to breathe at all. 

Jason places his hand at the bottom-most area of my ribs and then applies a pound of pressure and it makes me cry out. He moves both hands to my sides, prompting a long shout through a clenched jaw from myself. My legs listen to me this time and I manage to kick him weakly. At least he has the decency to back off.

I give in.

"Call Will."


	4. Curiosity Killed the Mechanic

The comment about the kitchen knife sitting by my toaster is what finally made me scared of Nico di Angelo. 

The reality that I'm harboring one of the, if not the most, powerful mutants in the country has set in and the panic is rising in my throat like bile. Would that explain why I put myself between Nico di Angelo's gun and my best friend like a brain-dead idiot who can't control his own impulses? Yeah, probably. 

Does that lessen how attracted I am to the death-wielding sociopath bleeding all over my couch, or make my hands quit mindlessly playing with his hair like I've got some hopeless schoolboy crush? No, apparently not.

Jason and I hoist Nico into somewhat of a stand, but when we start to shift him so we can both shoulder his weight, the Dark Lord gives Jason such a glare that he actually flinches. I fasten Nico's right arm over me and I feel his fingers tighten as strongly as they can to my shirt for leverage, mental support, who knows? It makes me feel funny. 

My friend must have been eyeing the gun that was still taunting us from the floor of my kitchen because Nico says, "Bring it. If I find you pointing it at me, you'll find it stuck in your throat."

Now I feel a different kind of funny that isn’t funny at all. I liked the first feeling better.

Jason has a knack for saving the day, and that includes merely owning a car. I doubt it would be very effective if I tried getting us to Will's office on my bike. We use the staircase like I did the previous night. Jason leads, scouting each floor before I follow with Nico. When we reach the lobby, we have to wait for the doorman to leave to his secret hideout or back room or whatever before we make a run for it. The lobby reflects the rest of the apartment complex: dirty, unappealing, and generally abandoned. Nico stumbles halfway across the room and his left hand immediately latches across his torso and onto the front of my shirt, and remains there. 

I didn't think I would ever feel such gratitude upon the sight of Jason's 2005 Honda Accord. He helps me lay Nico across the back seat and I choose to sit with the grimacing passenger, lifting his head to rest on my thigh. Jason slams his door probably harder than he means to and it makes Nico flinch. I mean to say something about it but my mouth is too dumb at the moment to form any words.

Will told us to meet him in his autopsy room. I argued that it was too open, too public, someone could bust in and attack Nico if he didn't get to them first, but Jason and Will both verified that coworkers always had to call in for permission before entering and Will was allowed to deny access. Will also explained that the normally automatic doors had a coded lock that he would engage so no one would be able to get in even if they tried. He seemed oddly excited about the upcoming experience. 

I find myself combing through Nico's hair again, but this time I stop myself and instead place my hand in the middle of his collarbone where I hope he doesn't hurt. I think some of his tension might be from me, but he doesn't give any sign for me to pull away. His breathing isn't steady and the sound of it bothers me.

I try to turn my focus to Jason. He's clutching his steering wheel tight enough to make his knuckles white and I occasionally see him extend his fingers and readjust his grip. The silence in the car is uncomfortable.

For some reason, my attention falls back to what my hands are doing. My middle finger is gently tracing tiny circles on his shirt. My shirt. No, his shirt. I don't want it back.

But now I notice the change in his breathing. It's quieter, weaker. He's passed out and pale.

"Jason, please drive faster," I say in a very small voice. I see him nervously look in the review mirror, tilt it so it gives him a view of Nico, then tilt it back to where it should be. The car gives a surge that pushes tears out of my eyes. I look away, out the window or something. I don't know why I'm crying. The whole situation is kinda weird.

 

 

 

Jason carries Nico bridal-style in through the back door, which leads to a short hallway directly to where Will told us to be. I knock on the door hurriedly and hardly a few seconds later it swings open, greeting us with an intensely freckled face and golden hair that has no right to be that livid.

"Put him over there," the surgeon points to the only table that looks more like a hospital's operating area than a metal slab meant to display corpses in need of autopsies. Jason fixes Nico into a suitable position and Will washes his hands and puts on fresh gloves. I watch Jason pull multiple lamps over, despite the too-bright orb that shines above them, while Will double-checks that his utensils are clean and places a mask over Nico's face and injects something into the crook of Nico's elbow. They're both swiftly cutting off my bandages because Jason knows how to help and Will knows how to put people to work.

I'm standing, frozen, in the middle of the room. I feel useless and like my legs want to crumble. 

I decide it might be better to just sit down on the other side of the room and keep out of their way. Even Jason eventually has nothing more to give pertaining to Nico's well-being so Will just occasionally orders him to hand him some obscure tool; otherwise no words are exchanged between them. I can only see their eyes above their masks. Will's are focused and intense, but Jason's are worried and skeptical.

My nerves must have finally given up because I find myself waking up from a light (unintentional) nap. I really have to take a piss. I don't know how much time has passed because I didn't see the clock when we got here and there are no windows to the outside. Will is still doing whatever he does but Jason has pulled up a chair and is resting his chin in his hand. 

I stand, getting Jason's attention. "Is there a bathroom?"

Jason nods towards a corner of the room and I follow. Hours must have passed because my bladder is suddenly  _really_  full. I wash my hands three times, rinse my face, and wash my hands again. I know there's no blood on my hands, but I can still feel it. Before Jason had showed up this morning, I think I scrubbed my hands for twenty minutes before I started my coffee.

When I emerge from the one-man bathroom, Will is the one to look up at me this time. His hands prop him up on the edge of the table. The mask has been removed from Nico's face and most of the lights have been turned off. He looks clean. And pale. Dead people look clean and pale at open-casket funerals. I stop walking before I reach Jason, my hands in my pockets.

"Leo," Will starts, and I jump. He pulls his mask down to his chin and has a smirk on his face. "Do me a favor and don't play doctor on live people, yeah?"

I see Jason grin at the floor and I let out a breath. He's okay. Right? Nico's okay. This absolute stranger that pointed a loaded gun at my best friend and threatened to choke him with it is okay. They wouldn't be joking around if he wasn't going to be okay, right?

But then both of their smiles fade. I was saying all that out loud.

"I don't know, Leo," Will responds quietly. "He's alive, but it's... really bad." 

I nod, sniffle, and nod again. "Jason told me what you told him," Will continues. "About how it happened. You fell asleep. It took me five hours, but I did my best and I think his muscle tissue will heal alright."

"What about the rest of him?" I finally manage to say. My voice cracks. 

Will lets out a breath and starts stripping off his gloves. "The chance he'll live is lower than the chance he won't, but, by the looks of it, he's tough. It's amazing he lasted through the night."

My ears are ringing and the voice in my head is telling them to shut up because Will's words are more important than their complaining. 

"Leo?" I hear Jason say.

"What?"

"Will asked you if di Angelo told you anything about before the... uh, before what happened," Jason tells me carefully.

"Before?" I'm confused. "No, I saw it myself and he honestly hasn't really talked that much other than mild death threats." I don't mention the sincere apology I got from the Ghost King, or the way he made it clear that he trusted me more than Jason. Could "trust" even be a good word to use?

Jason and Will exchange a glance. 

"Why? I don't...." I don't know how to finish my sentence.

"I think di Angelo was sexually assaulted," Will's lips say and I don't believe them.

"Sorry, what?"

"Mr. di Angelo has older injuries that correspond with that of sexual violence." Will could have just punched me in the gut and rammed my nose into his knee and it would have had the same effect. 

Come on, stop blubbering like a fish out of water. I'm ready to tie my arms to my sides if they don't stop shaking. Just  _stop it_. 

"What-" I stammer, "what makes you say that?"

Will puts his hands on his hips and joins Jason in staring at the floor. "There's bruising on his hips that doesn't match up with his injuries from the car crash and the gunshot wounds. He has similar marks on his thighs and knees. Before I saw them I noted he has a healing fracture on his hip, which I thought was induced by the impact of the car but, after I found the bruising, I concluded they were from the same source, which is not the car, the landing on the road, or the hitman's bullets but rather something else, probably a bit less than a week old."

"Oh," my voice comes out more high-pitched than I intend. A second "oh" comes out in more of a whisper. 

Jason and Will begin a conversation but I don't hear them, not a word they say. My eyes are trained on the IV attached to Nico and remain there when Jason's voice finally breaks through my thoughts. He and Will are going up to get some food, he says, and I nod minutely. Will says Nico might wake up soon, but that I don't need to call him when he does. Just keep checking his pulse since there isn't a heart monitor in an autopsy room. They'll be back in a half-hour. I hear them leave.

My legs take a while to decide to take Jason's seat next to the probably uncomfortable table Nico is laying on. I take a hold of his wrist, two of my fingers resting on his pulse. I never take them away. My mind is numb, but it's nice to not be thinking of anything. I don't want to be thinking of anything. I know exactly what I would be thinking about, and I really don't want to be thinking about it. I must be spacing out for ten minutes.

A slight increase in the pulse beneath my fingers snaps my attention into place. I stand up so quickly that my body almost doesn't keep up. 

"Nico? Are you waking up?" My hand cups the side of his jaw and I see his lips part as he takes a small breath. 

He opens his eyes for a moment but then closes them with a slight furrow of his brows. "You're still alive," he croaks.

Is that a good thing? Does he want me to be alive? Is he disappointed? Is there something on my face? My eyes are probably red. That's embarrassing. 

"How are you feeling?" I ask tentatively.

He scowls, but that must hurt his head because he flinches. Will's stitches are perfect. 

"It's okay, you don't have to answer that," I change my mind as I sit down again, my hand going back to his wrist.

"Stop talking."

"Will and Jason-"

"Don't care."

"Why are you trying so hard to get rid of me-"

"Do you ever stop  _talking_ -"

We both say our last sentence at the same time but his voice is so much quieter than mine. We each cut off our words in the same moment. 

"Fine, I'll shut up-"

"I don't want you to get killed."

We say that at the same time, too.

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. "I thought you didn't care about my well-being?"

He looks away, but he doesn't move his head. There's a moment of silence.

"I would never have given in to you taking me to a hospital," he finally says.

"I know."

"Hades had men there waiting for me to show up in case I survived. In case the hitmen missed. He should have known better. I always outdo him. You were stupid to have not run away when I told you to. They're going to hunt you down like wolves."

"Oh."

"They would have killed you on the spot. Killed anyone with you. Would ask the nurses at the front desk what my room was, and then kill them. They would swarm my room and shoot me until there were no bullets left."

Now it's  _me_  who wants  _him_  to shut up. I don't want to hear this. My heart already hurts.  _He_  already hurts. Will and Jason come back into the room before Nico finishes his statement, but he doesn't stop. In fact, he keeps talking as if there's a mist over his brain. Monotonous, quiet, just rambling. Nico is blankly staring through my chest.

"People don't like Hades. Poseidon is welcoming, easy to get along with. People willingly follow him. Zeus pays more than he needs to, like he's made of gold. Everyone is loyal to money. But Hades is cruel. He leads by fear. We'd do anything to escape him, but we know better. I know people who follow blindly. I know people who have stuck a gun in their mouth because he told them to and pulled the trigger. Right in front of me. 

"They do what I say. I'm too much like him. I don't know him as anything but the man who murdered my parents and brought me to the States like an imported dog. He gives me orders to give orders. But then a few of them ignored him. He spoke right to their face and they acted like he hadn't said a word. I repeated what he said, and they did what I told them to. They signed my death warrant.

"Hades brought me to his throne room. He pulled back a curtain and there they were, gagged, hanging upside down, eyes so wide I thought they would pop out of their sockets. He cornered me. He threw me around, grabbed me. He can turn his body into iron. He had a hand on my hip and I felt it break. I watched him shoot my hostage followers. He dragged me to another room by my throat.

"He did it to prove a point. He's in charge. Percy found me, hours later. He put on my clothes, sat with me until I walked home. Hades set us up when the police obtained us. I tried to convince them that we were guilty, to keep us locked up, take us to court and decide our sentence. Everyone knows that if someone gets caught they have to die. They made us leave. Hades thinks Percy is the smarter one, the more capable one. He thought that if he killed me first, Percy would know and he would get away. Percy's dead. They wouldn't go after me until they had killed him. I ran. I made it ten miles before they hit me."

His face is emotionless and his half-lidded eyes don't blink. Jason finishes writing on a clipboard. Will's mouth hangs slightly open. My index finger is tapping on Nico's wrist, a sequence of Morse code that I always forget about. After a minute, he finally closes his eyes briefly and then glances up at me before looking away again. He pulls his wrist away from me.

"Poseidon will go to war with Hades for killing his son. Annabeth needs to know that Percy isn't going to show up. She's waiting for him to find her."


	5. Sometimes You're the Hammer, Sometimes You're the Nail

When I wake up, I don't remember where I am or how I got here. For a moment I think it's a hospital and I sit up too quickly, pain washing over me but my senses too shocked to make me care; yet then I see Leo, alive and looking at me calmly, and the panic disappears. I shift myself, crossing my legs and resting my elbows casually on my knees.

"You okay?"

I look at him. Hard, but not with scrutiny. Just a look, and then I gaze forward at nothing. Away from him.

"You told us what happened to you."

I keep my focus and make no indication that I hear him or that I care. I don't remember much of what happened, or much of what I said. A lot of my brain is a blur right now.

"Jason wrote it all down." A pause. "We didn't know Annabeth Chase was alive."

I bring my eyes back to him then, sharply. I haven't really looked at him yet. I would say it was because I didn't have the chance, but, to be honest, he pulled me out of the street and I could have died in his bathroom or on his couch. I feel... safe, I guess, around him. Maybe not safe, but not in danger. The moment I saw Jason I ran up and down the entirety of him - what he looked like, what he was likely capable of, how he dressed, whether he was a threat or not. But Leo, no, I haven't looked at Leo yet.

His face isn't as bright as it was before, not as hopeful or friendly. His eyes look tired. His hair is a little curly and sits in an oddly satisfying mass on his head, falling down to his shoulders. He has a few freckles, maybe enough that I could count them. Eyes like honey. He's lanky, but he's got a ruggedness about him that contradicts his figure. Not as tall, not nearly as large as Jason. Tense shoulders. He's on edge and he's watching me look him over. He knows what I'm doing. His hands are red like he's been running sandpaper over them repeatedly. I've already learned that he's warm. His very being is warm.

Leo sits back in his chair and sighs. After a long moment of me just looking at him, he looks down. "I would really appreciate it if you would stop threatening Jason like you do. I get it if it's a natural reflex to you or that you don't trust him, but just because I get it doesn't mean I'm just going to let it happen. I don't care if you don't believe me, but he's not going to hurt you. He's my best friend. It makes me really uncomfortable and, scared, really, when you keep saying how you'd kill him. It just-"

"I'll stop," I sincerely say before Leo gets his words jumbled by talking too much as I look at my bare feet. I have no idea where my shoes are. 

"Thank you."

We both sit in silence. I've heard of awkward silences. I've probably experienced one, but I wouldn't remember. I like the quiet. I like how it makes other people fuss and how it builds tension in the air. It makes me feel powerful, but at the same time it's peaceful and I enjoy the absence of noise whenever it's offered to me.

"Where are Jason and, uh, the doctor guy?" I finally ask. 

"Will Solace," Leo verifies. "They work together. Well, in the same building and for the same people. They're somewhere upstairs, probably at Jason's desk or something. I've been here the whole time. It's almost seven."

"7 pm?" 

"Yeah."

My skin feels tight. "I don't want to be here anymore."

Leo chuckles humorlessly as he slowly stands. "Neither do I, man."

Suddenly, there's a hand in front of me. I'm almost afraid to get up because I know how much it'll hurt and I don't want to fall. After some hesitation, I gingerly accept the gesture, but Leo has to pull me upright more than I'd like to admit.

He leads me to a beat-up car that I can only assume is what we arrived in. I sit on the far side of the back seat while he calls Jason with his cell, and, soon enough, he and Will have joined us. Jason takes the driver's seat, Will next to him, and Leo back with me. 

"So, how are you feeling, Sunshine?” Will asks me once the car has gotten moving. I begin to think that smoke will start billowing out of the hood or one of the wheels will roll off, but neither of my imaginings happen.

To answer the happy doctor, I frown at him, and then resume my place gazing out the window, my chin resting in my hand, my elbow perched in the cup holder on the door. 

 

 

 

 

There's nothing attractive about Leo's apartment complex. 

A few people are hanging out in the lobby. Jason is worried that we should wait until they all leave so we won't be seen, but I tell him that's stupid. They don't look like they care about anything at all, it would probably be hours until the lobby finally empties, and no one knows my face anyway. My name may be known, but I can count the number of people who would actually recognize me, put my name to my face, and turn me in to Hades or the cops on a single middle finger. 

So we stroll in and it takes more energy than I have to keep my composure. The moment we get to the stairway, I lean heavily on Leo, my legs screaming to me about how horrible my weight is on their tired bones. Will says something dumb about how I should be in a wheelchair. We get a quarter of the way up the stairs before I fall and Leo has to carry me the rest of the way to his apartment. I didn't want to fall. 

Who even decided that Leo's home was the new hotspot? I don't want to be here. I don't want to be in this country. I don't even know if I still want to be alive. I know that I have no home to go back to; there would either be Demigods there or they've already destroyed the place, or both. I have no family waiting for me or grieving my disappearance. They're all dead. 

No, I don't want to be alive. It's at this thought that I feel tears streaming down my stoic face. 

We've just entered Leo's apartment and he's the first one to notice. I can see the confusion in his eyes. We're sitting oddly on the floor, his hands on my face. He must like having them there and I'm not going to push him away. I'm hungry, I'm exhausted, I'm in pain. I'm in  _so much pain_. 

I haven't cried vocally in a long time. Not since I watched Hades slit Bianca's throat. Leo probably tells Will and Jason to go in another room or something because they leave with multiple glances back. My body is trembling, sobs wracking my muscles. I can't do this.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Leo is asking quietly. "What's wrong?"

I can't answer him. I'm trying to keep quiet, but my emotions have other ideas. Leo is wiping my tears with his thumbs and I grab his wrists with both hands. My injured arm ignites in burning fury, although it's no match for the agony in my ribs. 

He lets me hold his wrists. I can't control how tightly I grip them, but my knuckles look like ivory. Somewhere inside of me I feel a twinge of guilt for probably bruising him, but wherever it is, it isn't powerful enough to make me let go or pull away. Instead, I find myself falling forward, the top of my head clashing with his chest. And I let harsh sobs out as gently as I can. 

"I-I'm hungry," I manage to choke out after a minute or two.

Leo's small smile is warm and calming as he helps me into the kitchen. I hear a TV on somewhere and, once I'm seated in a chair, I look around. Jason is draped on the sofa as if he lives here. Will is sitting more normally, yet still comfortably, on the other end of the furniture. My clothes are still folded on the table in front of them. Oh, my shoes are at the mouth of the hallway that I can only assume leads back to Leo's bedroom and bathroom. Does Jason still have my gun?

"Jason, do you still have my gun?" For a moment I think my voice isn't loud enough to beat the TV. I don't miss the glance he exchanges with Will.

"Yeah," he looks over the back of the couch. "Do you want it back?"

Do I?

"I can take it," Leo offers, his sudden presence making me flinch. I give him a look. There's a large glass of water in front of me. "Well, I can at least put it somewhere where you can find it when you need it," he explains. "No one's going to get you here, so I don't see why you would need it right now. I can imagine it's uncomfortable to sleep with it buried in your clothes." His confidence in the situation makes me sick, but I drink down the feeling.

I nod minutely, enough that he understands that I oblige. It's not that I think he's right, it's just that I don't have anything left in me to care about, well, whatever there is to care about.

"Leo," Will calls. "Only soft foods. Too much and di Angelo's body won't be able to stomach it."

"Okay," Leo responds. He pulls a can of chicken noodle soup out of a cupboard. My stomach growls at the sight and his eyes find mine. One side of his mouth curls up in a half-smile and his aura is entirely friendly. "Your hair is pretty long," he comments as he works on preparing my food.

"I don't like wearing it down." I really don't. It's too long, too messy, too wavy. I want it out of my face but I know my hands won't cooperate if I tell them to tie it up. 

"It shapes your face well," Leo shrugs. "Adds to the whole 'I'm a sith lord and I thrive in the shadows' kinda vibe. Suits you." I can tell by his voice and the accent to his words that he's smiling, even though his back is turned to me. 

I breathe out a short laugh, my lips twitching to accompany for just a moment. 

Leo looks at me, briefly, over his shoulder. "So you do have a sense of humor!" I hear him grinning. "Cute."

My eyes go back to the television behind me. There's two guys in a small workplace, one with a white shirt and a dark tie and the other with weird glasses and a round face, who looks kind of like a dork. The annoying kind. The guy in white keeps looking at the camera as if he and the audience are sharing some hilarious secret, and the glasses-guy just seems to be getting more agitated with each verbal exchange they have. When I see a stapler in the middle of a block of Jell-o, I raise my eyebrows in admitted bewilderment and turn back to what Leo is doing. 

"What kind of shows do you like?" Leo inquires.

I fold my arms and lean forward onto the counter. "I don't watch TV anymore."

"More of a book guy?"

"I like books. But I don't read anymore, either. Don't get the chance to."

"Well,  _buena suerte, amigo,_ you can browse whatever books you find in my collection and watch whatever TV shows you please throughout your stay at  _mi casa_. Leo's Magnificent Man Cave will provide anything you wish to enjoy." His pursed lips are smiling from ear to ear as he places a perfectly-warm bowl of soup in front of my hands. I flicker a smile of gratitude at him before I focus my attention on my food.

My hands make the spoon shake but I'm not surprised. Leo leans on the counter across from me, without a chair but seeming content with what looks like tomato soup. 

Leo's almost done with his dinner and I've swallowed probably half of my bowl when Jason and Will join us. They decline when Leo offers them some tomato-and-basil soup and the way Jason holds his body sets me off. 

"What?" My words have a bite to them. I've eaten as much as I can, although my hand sulkily traces my spoon around my bowl, and I would much rather curl up on something comfortable and go to sleep than listen to whatever Jason wants to say. I have the urge to pull his glasses off his face and crush them with a hammer. Multiple times. 

"We, uh," Jason finds his words, "we should probably figure out what we're going to do. You know, like, make arrangements for things and make a plan."

" _We_  are not going to do anything," I reply, my eyes on my soup and my fingers pushing my spoon in circles. "There are no arrangements you need to make. There is nothing in need of a plan. No,  _we_  will not be doing  _anything_."

Jason leans forward onto the counter, his eyebrows scrunching together. He's probably annoyed that I won't cooperate with him. Sucks for him. 

"But... Hades should be accounted for  _murder_  and Annabeth is-"

"Is none of your business," I say with hostility, meeting his gaze, my spoon coming to a still. "You're a rookie cop. You don't even have a real badge. But that's not even my point. You have  _no idea_  how  _dangerous_ or  _complex_  the Demigod system is. You will get  _killed_. There is  _nothing_  for you to do. Go home, Jason. The world needs to know that Nico di Angelo and Percy Jackson are dead. I'll call in an anonymous report to whatever news station will take it so they can broadcast the story. The cops have no control over anything anymore and it’s not like my life actually had an impact on anyone, so why bother? Percy's  _dead_. My apartment is either swarmed or destroyed. By now, probably completely demolished. I'm  _done_. I don't want to tell you what you think you're going to hear, just to satisfy your bullshit curiosity. You have  _no idea what it's like,_ so  _please, leave me alone_." 

My eyes are gauging holes into him and my jaw is clenched shut. The hammer I wanted to beat Jason's glasses with has turned on me. I want to cry again but I don't because I don't know why I want to. Will is looking away, embarrassed that he even had a thought in the whole thing. Jason looks like I've insulted everything he stands for, which I probably (totally) have. Leo...

Leo looks like he just wants me to stop hurting. 

The sympathy in his features knocks me back. I don't expect that. I don't  _want_  that. But now I want to be back in the entryway of his apartment, crying on the floor, holding his wrists in a way that keeps me from falling. I've already fallen.

Leo takes me back to the bathroom as quickly as he can and I throw up in the toilet. 


	6. The Monster's Not Underneath My Bed

It's been two days since I brought Nico home from his emergency surgery with Will.

Two days for him to not relax in the comfort of my home.

Two days for me to limit the amount of times my best friend walks through the front door because he so clearly agitates my semi-permanent guest.

Two days of realizing just how broken the Ghost King is, how much pain he's masking.

Two days for him to break  _me_. 

Nico isn't getting worse, but he isn't exactly getting better. I don't know what I should have expected, or maybe I'm just noticing it more because it's becoming so habitual, but I would think that he would stop needing to grip the island counter as he maneuvers around the kitchen or telling me to stay within earshot whenever he takes a shower.

But, then again, I would never want him to feel alone. I want him to know I'm there, to know that I will do anything to help him. He's stopped flinching when I reach for him and last night he tried helping me make dinner even though he had to sit more than he could stand. My routines revolve around him and my heart constantly aches for him. He has no where to go. He has no personal clothes so he's wearing all my darkest outfits. He has no family, no friends, no guardian. 

And, now, he has no hair.

"Are you sure?"

"You've asked me that six times already, Leo."

"I'm sorry, I just - are you  _sure_?"

I'm leaning warily on the door frame to my bathroom. Nico is staring into the mirror, hanging on nothing to keep him steady, his body looking like a tired corpse. He's thin and my shirt makes him look emaciated. Hair clippers are plugged into the wall, the actual object in his right hand. He's looking into his own empty eyes and I wonder what he sees.

He doesn't blink as he turns on the razor and brings them up to his forehead. I bite my lip as I watch his black hair glide down to the floor.

 

 

 

 

Nico doesn't really sleep a lot. Well, he  _really_  doesn't sleep a lot. He doesn't sleep at all. 

"Nightmares," he told me. "They're vivid and I wake up screaming. I prefer to avoid them."

It's not that the murmur of the television keeps me awake. It's not that at all. It's that I know he's crumbling. Sometimes he stumbles from pain or weak muscles, but sometimes it's from exhaustion. His eyes are dark and his eyelids droop. He never has any energy. The snark has left his words. He's losing his interest in everything, anything. It's tearing me apart. 

Maybe I should have Jason over. That would wake him up.

No, bad idea. Horrible idea.

I had thought it would be a horrible idea to leave my apartment simply to go to work. I thought I would come home and Nico would be gone. Or dead. 

I bring home a nightlight. Wireless, like an orb. Blue.

When I walk by his room that night, he's sitting on his bed with his legs crossed and the glowing nightlight in his hands. He knows I'm there because he's always listening and he's always on edge. His windows are always locked with the curtains closed.

His face is silhouetted by the light. His features are so elegant and I can't help but silently marvel at him. 

He sniffles and wipes his face with his lower arm. "Percy loved blue."

I don't say anything. I'm learning him as he's learning me. He's silent because he's reading the words that escape, reading the body language that he communicates so well with. He speaks because he knows he's heard and he wants to be listened to. And he's as simple as that.

"He had a birthday party, once. Sweet Sixteen, I think. There was a  _gigantic_  blue cake with sea creatures all around it. Probably from Cake Boss or something." He's still staring into the light and I wonder if he can't see anything anymore. "Grover shoved Percy's face right into the top of it right after he blew out the candles." His smile is illuminated in blue. 'I swear, I thought Annabeth was gonna have a fit. She said they ruined the perfect structure of the cake and she didn't even get a picture of it. Percy took a handful out of the side and smashed it into her mouth. She shoved it back at him, and after that I don't think anyone actually ate a real slice of that cake. It was in our hair, down our shirts...."

I just smile. The memory eases Nico, relaxing his features and loosening his death grip on life. "Goodnight, Nico."

"Goodnight, Leo."

 

 

 

 

At 4:23am I'm woken up by a single panicked shriek.

By the time I reach Nico's room, he's absolutely wired, and upon my presence he literally scampers off his bed and into the corner of the room in full defense. His eyes are wide and wild, his body ready to fight or escape. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I say with my hands up, palms facing him. "Nico, hey, it's just me, it's Leo." His breathing is rapid and loud. "I'm Leo. I'm real. I'm here."

Nico's legs instantly give out and I'm not there in time to catch him. He cries out as he hits the floor, his trembling arms wrapped around his bandaged abdomen and his eyes shut tight. 

"I'm real," I keep repeating as I kneel in front of him and clutch my arms around him as gently yet securely as I can. "I'm safe. You're safe."

He looks up at me and places a hand against my cheek. He looks terrified, so scared that he can't mask it. How can a nightmare do so much damage? What monsters live behind those frantic eyes?

And then he hugs me. 

My arms freeze in the air. He just... hugs me. His body is shaking and we're not exactly in a comfortable position on the floor but he's  _hugging me_.

 _Hug him back, you_ ** _idiot_**. 

It doesn't take long for me to feel him begin to tense up, so when he does I let him go and his sits upright, eyes towards the floor. 

"Do you want to go watch TV or something?" I offer in a very quiet voice. He nods in reply.

I automatically move to help him up. His hands are still slightly shaking but the tremors racking his body have disappeared.

Nico doesn't say anything for the rest of the night. I keep my eyes trained on the History Channel but my attention remains on the dark figure on the couch beside me, who's head is beginning to nod and sway. He shakes himself to awareness once.

By the end of the program, Nico is curled up into the side of the couch, breathing gently.

 

 

The next morning, I wake up on my couch alone. I look around; none of the lights are on. The kitchen is empty, bathroom door is open. 

Nico's door is closed. I knock and wait a bit. When I open the door, there's nothing and no one there. 

Throughout my apartment, it's as if Nico never existed. There's no trace of him anywhere except for the hair clippers he used to shave his head that I have yet to put away properly. Nico is gone. I freeze in the middle of my living room. The front door is unlocked. I never leave it unlocked. Nico is gone. Nico is gone.


	7. Even A Ghost Has A Sanctuary

Why did Nico leave? Was he taken? Is he okay, is he alive?

He left all of the clothes he borrowed, didn’t take the toothbrush I gave him or any food from the fridge, not even one of my water bottles was missing from the package. Nothing of his is left, not a shoe or his jacket, just the last of his blood stains on my bathroom floor that I’ve been trying so desperately to wash out of the grout.

It’s been five days since I woke up alone and I’ve spent those five days keeping the news on at all times on my television, reading any newspapers I can find, and eavesdropping on conversations that catch my ear – anything that gives me any hint where he is, if anyone has seen the mysterious Ghost King at all.

So what if it’s a lost cause? Yeah, I know that he was practically nonexistent before I met him. Found him. If he could keep his identity a secret for his whole life, I’m sure he’s having no problem hiding wherever he is.

I tried researching him by his real name. Not recent stuff, since I’m up to date on all that. Old stuff. I want to figure out where he came from, what age he was when Hades stole him, forgettable facts that could give me a clue where on earth he could be holed up. And, yeah, I think it’s a little odd that the only truthful thing that comes up for Nico Di Angelo is as recent as his and Percy’s arrest.

It’s as if Nico Di Angelo is a figure of imagination created by media consumers. As if he doesn’t actually exist at all; a tool for Hades, an icon for rebellion, a myth instead of a living, breathing person.

Eight days after Nico’s disappearance, Jason and I are flipping through confidential police records that would be best explained as ‘no one knows we have these.’ Searching, searching, searching. Hades is more of a secret than Nico, and even he has more records on file than the dark prince.

Nico’s a big deal, right? So he must have traveled across the country. We look through Zeus, through Poseidon. Nico was best friends with Percy, and Percy is Poseidon’s son. There’s got to be something there, right?

There’s actually quite a bit on Percy and a guy Nico mentioned, Grover. Old stuff, like maybe about a decade ago. In Percy’s file there’s a short bio for a really horrifying, monster-like guy called The Minotaur. Percy and Grover are kids in some of the pictures. There’s documentation of injuries on the two, but nothing stating whether or not The Minotaur is deceased.

Eight days stretches to ten days, and ten days double to twenty days. Twenty days crawls to sixty days, and I’m over it now.

Jason and I are watching soccer because soccer beats American football any day, even though that’s Jason’s favorite. We watched that last time.

At 10pm I know I should be getting home, and the game is over anyway. It’s not the brightest idea to be out late at night in our area.

“Can you check the news really quick?” I ask.

Jason looks at me kind of sadly. This has been the routine for the last three months, even though I don’t even know what I would do anymore if I found him. He’s moved to the back of my mind. Sports, news. Cartoons, news. Keeping Up With The Kardashians, news. News, nothing.

“Sure, man.” He flips the channels and the reporters are broadcasting something about cocaine found on a yacht in Rhode Island.

I stare blankly at the TV. “Well, thanks anyway,” I mumble. “When are you off next?”

“Uh, I’m not sure yet, actually. I’ll text you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Make sure you eat something for breakfast.”

“Will do. Bye, Jason.”

“Bye, Leo.”

It’s raining a little. I get on my motorbike and drive slow back to my apartment, avoiding people watching me ride down the road and occasionally swerving a little close to people in black hoodies.

 

 

 

 

At 7am someone is pounding away at my front door but I’m stumbling over literally all of my furniture. There’s a shirt from my floor caught around my ankle and I nearly fall trying to shake it off.

“Hold on, I’m coming!” I can’t see with my groggy eyes and I’m still rubbing them with my fist as I reach for the doorknob, the incessant pounding never ceasing.

I swing the door open, slightly annoyed. “Jason, seriously, I-”

Disheveled black hair that’s grown fast since shaving it off. Black t-shirt, black leather jacket. Heavy breathing, like he’s just raced up the stairs. Brown eyes that trap the earth in their color. And a backpack.

I slam the door closed in Nico’s face, cutting off whatever he was about to shout at me, but my feet don’t move and I’m stuck looking at the floor.

“Leo, open the door!”

“No! You’re a dick!”

“How am I dick?!”

“You left! You ran away!”

“I’m sorry!”

"No, you’re not!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Don’t agree with me!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck  _you_!”

“Open the damn door!”

I wait.

“Please?”

I rip open the door, my face searing with so many emotions that I don’t know how to identify any of them.

Nico rushes into my apartment before I can even think of trying to stop him. I close the door and turn to him, and he’s facing me with clenched fists and wary eyes. He’s doing his body-reading thing, looking me up and down as he did Jason when they first met.

We stand there for who knows how long just glaring at each other. Why is he even mad? He has no right to be mad. He barged into  _my_  home.  _He_  left. Why the hell is  _he_  angry?

I briefly remember when Jason tried to reason with Nico at my dinner table. As Jason grew more frustrated and angry that Nico wouldn’t hear him out, Nico fed off his energy and got upset himself. Nico is mirroring my emotions. He’s not angry, he just thinks he is.

I slow my breathing, calm my heartbeat. Relax. Am I even angry? I’m certainly surprised. Shocked, actually. But angry?

After a little while, Nico starts lowering his gaze from around my entryway to my own line of vision. He starts fidgeting and begins to look more unsure than angry. He scratches his arm and then leaves his hand holding the limb. It’s good to know he can move his bad arm now.

“I’m sorry, I-” but I interrupt him.

“Thank you for coming back,” I tell him.

He looks at the floor, then back up at me and smiles slightly. Just a raise of one side of his lips.

“Are you okay?” I ask after another pause.

He scratches the back of his head. His hair has grown out. He looks really cute.

“Uh, yeah,” he shrugs. “I mean, sometimes I tweak my arm the wrong way, but it’s nothing.”

My face winces a bit at his comment. I know he’s lying. He hurts more than that. I want to hug him but I get the idea he wouldn’t really appreciate my gesture.

“Where did you go?”

He’s silent for a long moment. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I scowl at him, but, hey, it’s only fair. He doesn’t have to tell me, whether he’s trying to protect me or if he’s just good at being a pain in the ass.

 

 

***

 

 

“Where did you go?”

Where  _did_ I go?

The first week alone, I thought I was dying. I probably  _was_  dying. I can add throwing up on park benches and sleeping under minivans to my list of accomplishments. More than once I was so starving that I passed out. One of those times I knocked my head, hard, on cement pavement.

All it took was three fucked-over months of dying day after day to collect all the money to my name. Money to pay back Leo. Money so I wouldn’t need to borrow his clothes anymore and use his things. Money to replace his broken shower head and get some better shampoo. Money to buy food and pay for bills, because I had no where else to go. All in the hope that he would take me back.

I got lost. Twice. Some shitty people gave me some shitty directions that either backed me into corners or left me stranded. At least half of my time was spent just trying to summon enough energy to shadow-travel. Lots of bodies left behind, more skeletons in my closet. I at least gave a large sum to Will for his trouble. Even transferred a bit to Jason’s account because I don’t actually hate him. But I have a lot of money to my name, a lot of money Hades doesn’t know I have.

I shouldn’t have left so soon. Too many times I was at death’s door and too many times I didn’t know where I was. I found myself in California after some time, almost went waltzing right up to Poseidon’s door, wondering if Percy had made it home. He hadn’t. I’m waiting for his soul to find the shadows in my vision.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”


	8. Pull The Lever, Kronk!

Nico is full of life.

He gets really excited about little things he finds enjoyable and he tries so hard when he wants to do something. Whenever he finds something broken in my apartment, he immediately fixes it himself, goes out and buys a replacement, anything to immediately solve the problem. That card game 'Mythomagic'? Don't even get me started. He's  _obsessed_  with it, and it's the most adorable thing I've ever seen. He radiates sunshine when he smiles and he has the warmest, most comforting hugs I've ever experienced. It's been made clear to Will and Jason that they aren't even allowed to put their hands on his shoulder, but if Nico and I are the only ones home, he'll come up behind me while I'm watching TV, lay across the back of the couch, and clasp his arms around me.

But he also has demons in his head and the dead  _literally_  hang out at the edge of his vision. Sometimes he tells me what he sees. Occasionally there's skinless corpses or mouths vomiting guts. Rarely there are pale, clean bodies of children. A lot of times I can't take the images he puts in my head and I have to tell him to stop. He understands, though. He's considerate. He cares about others. He acts cold and stubborn, and, well, he totally is and I would never deny that, but what's left of his heart is pure gold. He's gotten me into a routine of letting him know I've arrived at my destination whenever I leave the house so he knows I'm safe.

He bought both of us new phones. Downloaded Netflix on my TV, even. Fixed the bugs on my computer and insists that he make dinner every other night so I don't "get stuck with too much work that can be easily split."

I've never felt like I do now. Actually  _wanting_  to do something for someone just to see them smile, not just because I'm obligated or expected to. Sure, if Jason doesn't have any money on him I'll pay for his lunch. But to just  _want_  someone to be happy, someone who is so torn down and damaged... it's a feeling I'm learning to love.

I think it's my turn to make dinner, but I've been mindlessly watching Archer for the past couple hours, completely oblivious to the world. I hear Nico come into the room and I turn around to greet him and

"HOLY FUCK," I accidentally let out.

Nico freezes mid-step almost comically, like a deer in the headlights, squints his eyes at me, and then raises an eyebrow.

"You wear makeup?!" I jump out of my seat, my mouth gaping.

"Fuck you!" He straightens up.

"What?!"

He pulls himself taller and crosses his arms. He looks like a punk. He looks  _hot_ as  _hell_  as his gaze scrutinizes me and his conscience cuts my intestines up with scissors.

"No, dude, I... holy shit?" I stammer, approaching him and reaching out with my hands. He swats them away, frowning, but he looks amused now. He's enjoying this. The shit knows  _just how flustered I am_   _right now_  and he is  _THRIVING_.

He’s not wearing a lot and he still looks fairly natural, but whatever he’s done is art. There's a thin streak of eyeliner that's perfectly curved to his eye and his features are a little more narrowed. There's a more sharpness and shape to his eyebrows and he must have done something to his skin because his  _fucking cheekbones_ -

"My fucking cheekbones what?" Nico chides. My hand is holding his chin, angling his face in the dim lighting so I can admire him in all his shining beauty. I quickly realize what I'm doing and jump away.

The absolute fucker  _smirks_! "It's seven-thirty and I'm hungry. Let's go get McDonald's."

It takes me a moment to remember what verbal communication is. "W-What? Mc- The guy who makes fine Italian dinners from scratch wants McDonald's on a Monday night?"

"Well why the hell not?"

"I'm not objecting!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"God, you're cute," I say under my breath.

"If you're done complimenting your deity, I'd appreciate it if you'd go put a change of clothes on because I am  _not_  looking this good while you're in stained basketball shorts."

"No, I- You!  _You_  are cute!"

"Valdez, shut the fuck up."

 

 

 

I can't compete with the Creator of the Color Black but I at least put on a shirt and pants that don't make Nico roll his eyes. We walk to the nearest McDonald's because I'm too lazy to pull my motorcycle out and Nico doesn't really have any automobile. Which I think is a little odd, since he's mentioned to me that even though he was a hitman he would often drive himself or others. I learned he didn't like putting his life in the hands of others and that he's a bit of a control freak but almost entirely out of safety. Kinda odd coming from someone who kills people for a living, but, hey, I'm not gonna question it.

I also learned that he always carries a gun on him. I eventually told him that wasn't gonna be allowed at home, so he resorted to keeping one in every room. You know those kinda weird Americans that really like their 2nd Amendment and own, like, twenty pistols, three shotguns, and eight different rifles? Because that's Nico.

But he keeps them hidden from my sight with the safety on. That makes me feel safer and just knowing that his weapons are within a swift reach makes Nico feel safer. We compromise.

Oh, and he has a sword.

Knives, though? He set up a target on one of the walls in the living room and spends maybe an hour a day just throwing knives at it. Rarely misses his target. He can't always aim at the bullseye because there's typically a knife already lodged there.

So that's how we end up at a bar after McDonald's, Nico racking up money from bets in a knife-throwing contest and obliterating his competition while a rock band with a really nice sound I'm actually enjoying plays on a tiny stage in the corner. After Nico wins, I ask him if he could help me try out that eyeliner thing sometime. Maybe the cheekbones, too.

As we're walking home, maybe around two in the morning, Nico's hands are in his jacket pockets and I'm swinging mine with enthusiasm to prevent the cold from sucking the life out of me when Nico suddenly starts talking in a very calm voice. He's still not one for many words, and it almost catches me.

"Hey, I need you to be calm and not look around or anything. Just keep walking."

My heart shrivels up and crumbles away right then and there, but I keep swinging my arms like a kid and focus on keeping my pace the same.

"Someone's been following us since we left the bar. They can't hear us and they don't know that I know they're there."

"Are we going to die?" My voice nearly cracks but, hey, no, I'm calm, right?

"They would have made a move already. It's unlikely someone's going to try to wait me out. They've tried that before."

Just keep walking. Just keep walking.

"You're okay, Leo. I won't let you get hurt."

"Remind me who pulled who out of their unintentional grave in the street?"

Nico gives that half-assed laugh he does.

Safely inside my apartment with the door locked, we change into our pajamas (and Nico, sadly, takes off his makeup) and I sit back on my beloved couch while Nico positions a chair between me and the front door, a double-barrel shotgun in his hands.

 

 

When I wake up, he's still there, but his legs are criss-crossed, his chin is against his chest, and his eyes are gently closed. I know he's not asleep, and, while I feel really wrongly selfish that I just passed the hell out while he stood watch all night, I feel a huge tug of gratitude for everything he is.

He hears me rustle and turns his head towards me. Rubs his eyes for a moment and then stands slowly, unloading the shotgun and propping it up against a lamp table. I sit up, a little wary, as he shuffles his way to the door, unlocks it, and peers out into the world.

I watch him kneel down and pick up something. Is that an envelope?

Nico closes the door and flips the envelope in his hands as he makes his way back to me, frowning in confusion. No, that's not really confusion. That's suspicion masking over something else.

He opens the envelope carelessly halfway before he suddenly stops. His face changes and he rips the paper until what's inside is exposed. For a moment I think it's a really, really long letter, until I realize he's reading it over and over and over again, more frantic each time. But it's not fear. No, that's not fear at all.

"Oh my god," Nico cries as he falls to his knees. I leap off the couch and race to him. He's crying and he never takes his eyes off the words he's reading.

"Percy found Annabeth. Percy... Percy's a-alive!"


	9. PART TWO: The Game Has Changed

“ _We are just hearing an update on the Demigod mob boss Hades. The information we are receiving is clustered and can not be confirmed at this time, but we will verify as soon as–”_

“Hey, guys….”

“Do you have any more Dr. Pepper?”

“I should have a can in the fridge–”

“ _Guys!_ Can someone turn up the volume on the TV?”

I can feel the gaze of everyone in the room all over my skin. “Please,” I ask again. “You have to listen to the TV right now.”

Annabeth grabs the remote just in time for the program to reappear. Leo’s apartment is suddenly very quiet aside from the reporter on the large screen.

“ _Sources confirm that the Big Three Demigod leader Hades has been killed following a civilian automobile crash. A drunk driver collided with Hades’ vehicle just an hour ago in what is believed to be a complete accident. We are assuming from our newest information that this was not a planned attack. It has been six months since the Ghost King and Poseidon’s son Percy Jackson were found dead after mysterious circumstances; without an immediate successor to the empire, we are not sure of the events that will unfold. Police are encouraging the public to be wary of what they say could be erupting chaos within the Demigods. For those just joining us, Demigod leader Hades has….”_

I can feel Percy’s presence move up beside me like fire. I turn and look up at him. His eyes are wide, fearful, glued to the screen.

“Nico?” Leo’s eyes reach for me and his voice wavers with a nervousness I’ve never heard. He’s shaken, but visibly confused. Annabeth’s hand covers her mouth in silence while Jason reads the words rapidly lining the bottom of the report frantically.

“Nico,” Leo says again, grounding me. My eyes finally meet his. “What’s going on?”

I swallow. “Everyone is going to die.”

Jason whips around to face me. “No, you can’t just–”

“Everyone, Jason,” Percy finds his voice. It’s rough and quiet. “Hades’ empire was too dangerous. These are people with no limits to their powers. This….”

“This is a fight for power,” I finish. “A very, very violent one.”

“That can’t be how it’ll play out,” Jason tries to reason. “Hades wasn’t the only one, there are three. Percy, your dad–”

“Thinks I’m dead.” Percy’s voice is hard, now.

“By Hades’ hand,” Annabeth finally speaks. “And by everyone who let it happen.”

“We’re going to die?” Leo’s voice breaks. His terror is what makes my muscles relax, only to crumble. I sink to my knees and grind my fists into the carpet. I should be dead. This wouldn’t be happening if I had just died, if I had left Percy and Annabeth where they were.

“Nico, please, I need you to explain this.” I barely hear Leo. He sounds far away and I feel numb.

“It’s a fragile empire,” my voice betrays me. I feel like I’m shrinking. Even the dead hiding in the corners of my vision are retracting. I know I’m chilling the room, cold air seeping off me in waves, dropping the temperature so much that Jason starts rubbing his arms. I just stare at my fingers. “Hades created fear. His followers are not free. They’re trapped, they have raw power and they are _trapped_. Like a wounded bear. They will strike.”

“What if Poseidon knew you were alive? Couldn’t he put you as the new Hades? You have his son, _you have his alive son_ ,” Jason begs.

“Hade’s followers would kill Percy _and_ Nico if they knew they were alive,” Annabeth argues. “Percy and Nico are threats. Hades’ throne is an open game and… and you have no idea what he’s created. Nico…” She turns to me. “…is a weapon. He’ll be used or he’ll be hunted. Someone wants power and someone else wants to take it from whoever gets there first. There’s Kronos, there’s Atlas, there’s…. This will only end in blood. Everywhere.”

Jason turns to me again, but this time he looks mistrusting. “What are… what are you capable of?” he says slowly.

I look at him with dark eyes, holding them still. My jaw clenches as he approaches me but my legs make no move to pick me up from the ground.

“Nico, what are–”

“I’m not the only dangerous one!” I shout back at him and the darkness begins to spread. His tower above me begins to shrivel away. He knows there are too many powerful Demigods, he _knows_. “That’s the _problem_ ,” I follow up in a much quieter voice.

“What about all the people who followed _you_?” Leo asks innocently. He’s so, so scared. I won’t want him to be scared, but I can’t lie to him.

I shake my head. “They’re gone. Most of them are dead. The rest… I’m dead to the rest of them.”

The gears spin in Leo’s head. “So… is this… what if it’s just on the east coast? Can’t we run?”

“We’d be leaving these people to the destruction of their city. Their homes. Their lives,” Percy’s eyebrows knit together. “The system on both sides is corrupt. It’s a spreading virus.”

The darkness circling my eyes festers as my gaze burns the floor. “There are hundreds of thousands, probably millions of Demigods with suddenly no leader, no rules, and no limitations. It's all a game to them, and they’re hungry.”


	10. Discontinued

I owe you all an apology for dragging this on for a year and never completing it. However, I can't seem to figure out what I want to do with this story so I am ending it here. Thank you for all your love, comments, and kudos! I will be moving on to a new Keith!centric Voltron fic if you are interested (which I DO plan on completing).


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